


Blue Drink, Red Manchester

by MobiAblackout



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Boys Kissing, M/M, Pogba magical matchmaking power
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 11:01:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18248507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MobiAblackout/pseuds/MobiAblackout
Summary: Man United won Manchester derby 3-2, and they decide to hit the town and celebrate. Jesse and Marcus are having a hard time having quite as much fun as their teammates though, distracted by what lies ahead for each of them.





	Blue Drink, Red Manchester

**Author's Note:**

> I've written this just for fun and because I have a soft spot for these two idiots.

8 pm.

Jesse is a hair past tipsy. Just a hair. Honest. He doesn't know what fruity bullshit drink Paul shoved at his hand as soon as he first stepped into this bar/club/hole in the wall, but they’ve just won Manchester derby and this is radioactive blue and it's got liqueur in it that he can't even pronounce and it reminds him of Man City and it's kind of disgusting and fuck, is it strong. So maybe he asks Paul what the name of it is.

"Blue Motherfucker." He says it straight, no inflection to his voice. The king of disinterest, Paul would much rather be dancing to whatever electropop is playing in the background that is honestly kind of infectious, if Jesse's moderate rhythmic swaying could answer for him, but there's somebody without a drink in hand and in his books tonight, that's just about a crime.

It tastes like battery acid, until his tongue goes numb. Then it tastes like blue and citrus. And blue."No, I know what color it is, but like… what is it called?"

"...Blue Motherfucker." An emotion finds his voice - pure disdain. It's expected, though, and Jesse is frankly pleasantly surprised that he wasn't actually being called a motherfucker. Even if that's not what these drinks were called when he ordered them, that's what they are now, and that's what Jesse will ask the bartender for.

Marcus, on the other hand, is freshly-woken bear levels of cranky, slouching at the bar. His head hurts, and he just wants to go back to his house and decompress and not be in this loud as fuck bar. He's only there because, to hell with it, it's a bar, and one of the few things Marcus can call a friend is Booze.

8:15 pm.

Jesse has finally polished off his tall glass of battery acid, and is taking a beat to glance around at who all has come out. His eyes fall on Marcus, who's grouching up a royal storm at the bar, despite the rest of their teammates trying to dance and drink and have an enjoyable time. What an ass. He rolls his eyes and eyeballs the shelves of liquor from a distance that says he isn't ready to order when a strong hand claps his shoulder. "What's with the scowl, man? Lighten up." Oh no, not Shaw. Jesse feels his knees go weak and he manages a pitiful smile.

"I'm good, uh-"

"Clearly not good enough, bro. You need a shot in you."

Jesse's stomach does weird flops when the most beautiful man he knows calls him brother. He is surprised, though not displeased, when Luke buys them a pair of Jolly Rancher shots. He kind of needs it to drown out the battery acid taste still burning at his molars.

The one good thing about being out with his teammates? Free alcohol. Marcus is a Cheap Motherfucker, and when he gets a congratulatory clap on the back from Smalling, of all people, "Not too young anymore to drink, huh" he is confused until Smalling offers to buy him a drink. F r e e. "Whiskey."

"Yeah!" Marcus's fiddling around with his phone, flipping it open and shut uselessly, and when a glass is placed in front of him, it is not whiskey. "What in the good fuck is this?"

"Whiskey lemonade!" Chris shouts over the din, like it's what Marcus asked for or some shit. Fuck's sake.

But he is smiling at him, and it's still an act of good faith and camaraderie and goddamnit, it's free alcohol, so he pounds it back because it at least has whiskey in it. Smalling claps him on the back again and disappears into the crowd, giving Marcus all of about four minutes to himself, if his phone's tiny display window can be trusted. He looks up to see his favorite teammate chatting up a storm with Shaw, and it has him grinding his teeth just a little. Then, he's interrupted by Mata, who offers more booze. Perfect. Juan, a learned and international gentleman, can surely understand Marcus's want of a good whiskey. He flashes his best winning grin and accepts. His charm is rewarded, kind of, with a whiskey sour. Close, but no cigar. Not even a bit of dip, if he's honest.

Somewhere between 9 -10pm. 

Marcus is absolutely not watching Jesse dance when Paul approaches him with some sickeningly bright blue concoction, and honestly, he has no goddamn clue what's in this thing, but he sits down, hands him the drink, and tells him, "you drink it like a mind eraser." It sounds like a horrible idea. He's in. And who is he to deny Pogba feeding him alcohol? Holy fuck, this is battery acid. It's working. He can at least taste the whiskey in it. He thinks. He has lost all concept of hours and minutes, just the bottoms of glasses and it is impolite to turn down free drinks from friends, right? Are they friends? He needs to consult the shot of Patrón that Lukaku just nearly shoved into his hand. Tequila says "friends." Alright then.

?:? pm

Marcus's shoulder is warm and he sees a mitt of a hand there and then when he looks up, blue eyes all glassy, there's Shaw, grinning, and goddamn does he feel fucking ugly next to this guy."Shots?"  
Okay.

And he's not sure if it's his brain yelling at him, or if the bar really is chanting "shots" - neither, it's just the song playing - but he's staring down Shaw in a bizarre trial. What makes it worse is that it's not all the same liquor, because that's too easy. Marcus had to up the ante, because he is perpetually trying to prove himself, which also means that he occasionally allows his mouth to write checks that his body cannot cash. He's staring at the glasses, trying to figure out a game plan. He could do the sour apple vodka back to back with the Goldschlager… But the hell could he do with this other mess of shots? He was just glad that he insisted, finally, with a stubbornness seen usually only out of pit bull puppies, that one of these fucking shots be whiskey. Pure whiskey. Jack fuckin' Daniels. No substitutions.

By whatever time it is now, Jesse is absolutely obliterated, but he doesn't feel terrible like when he usually gets drunk - which is next to never - but rather he feels sort of free and relaxed and probably far more ballsy than he has any right to be. As he sips noisily at number who-the-fuck knows of his Blue Motherfucker, tongue numb to the cacophony of alcohol in his mouth, he looks over towards where Marcus is sitting. Well, was sitting. He is now running a line of shots with Shaw and for some reason, Jesse wants to punch him in the face. Not because he's mad at him, but he looking really fucking good tonight.

Realistically, he had no reason for thinking like this. Jesse has a family. He has friends and loved ones and a rewarding career, and yet there Marcus Rashford is, looking too good hunched over a bar with a tiny stream of missed sugar-mixed liquor from the corner of his mouth because he needs to slam six shots - half because Shaw bought them and he needs to prove himself in front of him, and half because it's six shots of alcohol and it's the principle of the thing.

Shots safely downed, Marcus allows himself a quick glance around the bar to spot Jesse again. His palms itch and he wants to soothe them on Jesse's hair. He wants to curl his fingers in the belt loops on Jesse's dumb low, tight jeans and pull him close until the stitching pops. He wants to steal Jesse's stupid hat- he's going to steal Jesse's stupid hat- and run his tongue behind the Jesse's teeth. He wants to finally fucking make sure that Jesse NOTICES him, that Jesse SEES him and what he wants and what he's wanted this entire stupid fucking time. Wow, he needs another drink, stat. "God, I just wanna fucking destroy him," Marcus grumbles to Shaw, who is currently winning the friend competition since he's bought Marcus the most alcohol tonight, as Marcus tries hailing the bartender for another cup of blue battery acid. Shaw looks a bit confused, but accepts it. He IS a good friend. Alcohol was right.

Jesse has had it up to, well, somewhere, with how good Marcus is looking. His limbs are all loose, and this music is really loud, the bass is rattling his bones in a good way, and it's late, and he's going to regret skipping training tomorrow, so it's tough to say just how far up he's had it when he can't lift his arms that high. But he's sort of hypnotized at the lights and how they flash off of Marcus's face and how Marcus looks lost in a crowded room like he always does and frankly, he's committed.

He's just standing in place, nodding his head to the music until he finally gets the cognitive ability to move his legs, and yeah, ok, he's doing this. He could always blame this on the Blue Motherfucker. Which sounds oddly prejudiced in his brain, but then he reminds himself it's a drink and his bias towards its color doesn't make him a bad guy. Marcus is nearly spun off of his seat at the bar, eyes half-lidded in contented inebriation, taste buds blurred into oblivion and varying types of alcohol, but then Jesse is in his face, looking disheveled and irritated and really fucking pretty. Like always, but more. "Fuck it."

Wait what?

"Wait, what?"

Jesse grabs Marcus by the front of his expensive t-shirt, and instead of a nervous peck on the lips, it is bruising and heavy with blue and citrus, and teeth. It hurts, to be honest, but it's real, and Marcus's world spins so fast, he thinks he's risking yakking up those last six shots (eight? was it six or eight?). Jesse's teeth pull at Marcus's bottom lip, and he's just as much a show runner out of the ring as he is in it, because Marcus falls right into his trap, gasping and making room for a downright cutthroat invasion by Jesse's tongue.

Jesse hands frame the good golden boy's hips, fingers sliding through belt like that's what they're made for. Almost lazy in response to Marcus’ aggression, Jesse tongue traces the underside of his friend and twists against it as he gleefully forgets where he is. Jesse pulls back and Marcus chases, at last stealing a chance to taste the backs of Jesse's teeth, surprised in his drunken half stupor that he tastes like shitty rail liquor and sour mix, as opposed to candy or venomous words or some other poetic bullshit. Faintly, in the distance, Herrera laughs nervously. "Hey… you guys, uh…" Jesse startles, apparently running out of boldness as he whips his head to catch how many people are staring at him now. Everyone's reactions are slightly different. Paul is still King Disinterest, but he does sort of smirk to himself at the magical matchmaking powers of Blue Motherfucker. Shaw is slightly shocked, but not in a bad way. He had presumed that Marcus's strange flame was for Paul, and not for Jesse, but thinking back on it, nah that makes sense.

"God damnit, Ander! Literally no one asked for your opinion!" Everyone in the bar is about as surprised as Ander when he gets slugged in the arm by an openly distressed Ashley Young. Young, apparently, is having a royal fucking meltdown. Hands clapped to his cheeks, while Matic shoots him a more than incidentally nervous side-eye.

"I just thought they might want to-"

"No, Ander! No. You ruined it. You fucking ruined it!"

"But, that's kind of something… to do… in private…"

"Shut the fuck up, oh my GOD." Marcus just rolls his eyes, glad that he doesn't need to do anything to Ander, but also damn confused at David’s overwhelming enthusiasm for the unexpected-yet-welcome makeout session. "Cover his eyes, David," he calls before reeling Jesse back in by the belt loops, pulling him into the kind of kiss that people who are going to see each other again don't really do.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you had fun reading this, let me know what you think.


End file.
